The Case Book of Emily Lawrence

by KB Inglee

  Emily handed Mrs. Underwood the paper on which she had written all the pertinent information, as well as the drawing she had made of the man on the trolley.

  “Yes, that’s him. What a lovely drawing. May I keep it?”

  “If you like. I am curious to know what was in the brown paper parcel he delivered this week.”

  Caroline’s laugh was light and musical. “Why, Christmas candy, of course. Thank you both for the trouble you have gone through on my behalf.”

  Emily turned Mary toward North Avenue when they left the house. “We have one more stop to make.”

  Mary looked puzzled, but said nothing as Emily led her across the usually busy street, now almost deserted. A short distance down Ringe Avenue they came to the gates of the Catholic Cemetery.

  Emily walked down the gravel path towards the spot she had found earlier. She didn’t turn to Mary or speak to her until they were standing in front of a small marker, on which the letters “GAR” were carved just above the name James Callahan. Rose’s name appeared under his.

  “Your mother and father, Mary,” said Emily, stepping aside to reveal the stone.

  “‘GAR?’” asked Mary. “What’s that?”

  “Grand Army of the Republic. Your father was a war hero. He was about to be advanced to the rank of sergeant when he was wounded and mustered out in 1863.”

  Emily couldn’t tell if Mary was pleased or disturbed by being brought face to face with her family until the girl dropped to her knees and ran her fingers tenderly over the stone.

  The gravel crunched behind them as someone approached rapidly, stopping just behind Emily’s shoulder. She didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

  “Mary,” she said softly. “Here is someone who would like to meet you.”

  Mary turned. She did not try to check the tears running down her cheeks.

  Emily smiled. “Mary Callahan, I would like to introduce you to your brother, James. Mr. Callahan, your sister, Mary.”

  No one spoke for a very long time. At length James said, “Mrs. Lawrence said you may have the rest of the day off. If you care to, I’d like to take you home to meet the rest of the family.”

  Mary could merely nod her consent.

  James turned to Emily. “I’ll have her back by nine o’clock, if that’s all right.”

  “It’s a bit late, but under the circumstances, I don’t see the harm. Merry Christmas to you both.”

  Emily removed the half dollar she had slipped into her glove, pressed it into Mary’s hand, and turned away. With a warm heart and a sense of accomplishment, she started for home.

  Cambridge, Mass. November 30, 1894

  Happy holidays, dear Anna,

  This one letter will have to do for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years’.

  Things have changed since my last letter. At first I was very happy to be back in Cambridge. I enjoyed the company of those living in the Villa, and Mrs. Stevens seemed overjoyed to have me here. I think I expected it to be as it was when we were children, living in the house next door. I still find myself looking for Mother and Father on the street or coming out of Divinity Hall. I miss Professor Stevens bustling about the house and sitting at his beloved piano. I can see our little cottage from the window of my sitting room. There is a family with small children living there now, but I cannot bring myself to call on them.

  I had forgotten how much Charles and I were together here. The museum steps where we met. The lecture halls where we talked long after the lecturer was finished. The streets we walked side by side.

  I thought I was glad to be finished with detective work, but it was not difficult for Mrs. Stevens and her boarders to involve me in a case of blackmail. Since then I have taken on several other small commissions. It has provided a bit of money for those extras, like the gifts I have sent on for you and the boys.

  Perhaps in time I shall be content here.

  Certainly not until after Christmas. It has never been a comfortable holiday for me. It is made worse this year by the fact that most of my new friends will be out of town for a few days. Mrs. Stevens says she will have Hanna and Mary join us for dinner, but I think it would be better to give them the day off. We can eat sandwiches in the kitchen. Or perhaps I could treat her to dinner at the Porter House.

  With all my love, and blessings for the holiday,

  Emily

  MURDER IN A POSH HOTEL

  Boston, November 1894

  “Mr. Gooding isn’t here.”

  Emily stared at the hotel desk clerk. Was he uncomfortable having a woman ask for a male guest, or had he simply expected such a request to be made by someone of a higher social standing?

  “Where is he?” Emily asked, fighting the urge to stamp her foot. “I have an appointment with him at ten o’clock.”

  “I couldn’t say,” said the clerk, lifting his chin and looking down his nose at her.

  “I should like to leave a note for him, if you don’t mind.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

  She shook the wet snow from her hood onto the polished marble floor then searched in her purse for a visiting card and a pencil.

  “Very well, though it won’t do you much good.”

  He turned away, shuffling papers on the mahogany desk. The telephone rang and the clerk turned his back on her to answer it.

  Emily thought, not for the first time, what a convenience it would be to have a telephone at home. It would save time and shoe leather when she was working on an investigation. It would serve as a barrier between her and rude clerks. Mr. Gooding could have telephoned her to cancel the appointment and prevented her cold, wet trip into Boston. She would speak to Mrs. Stevens about it this afternoon.

  As she turned to leave, a Boston police officer whose name she could almost recall came through the door from School Street. Not at all the sort of person she would expect to see entering this posh hotel.

  “Good morning, Officer O’Shay.” Was that his name? She hoped so. “What brings you to the Parker House?”

  Had Mr. Gooding thought better about using her services as a private detective and called the police instead?

  He glowered at her. “I can hardly tell you that, Mrs. Lawrence, now can I?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “It ain’t for a good cup of morning coffee, that much I’ll say.” He tipped his hat and stepped up to the desk.

  Emily, always happy to pick up a tidbit regarding police business, moved away, but just far enough to overhear the conversation.

  The room number the clerk gave to O’Shay was the same one Cox had written on the card he had handed her at breakfast.

  There were a host of reasons why a Boston policeman would visit a novelist in his room. Robbery, assault, even death. Or Gooding might simply want to interview a policeman for his next novel.

  She shrugged and stepped out into the street in time to see the black van from Massachusetts General Hospital pulling into the alley that lead to the service entrance of the hotel.

  Death, then.

  “Well, well, well, what would Mrs. Lawrence be doing here just now?”

  Emily swung around to face the grinning reporter from the Tribune. Wet snow covered his hat brim and soaked into his collar. His green and yellow plaid trousers hung sodden about his ankles. Even his well-waxed mustache drooped in the damp.

  “I might ask the same of you, Mr. Fleet.”

  “Word is out that a famous novelist was stabbed last night. You wouldn’t know anything about that, now, would you?”

  “I don’t know anything about a stabbing, Mr. Fleet. You know I stay away from cases that involve the police.”

  “I’ll give you dollars to doughnuts that you came here to meet with Mr. Webster Gooding.”

  Heat rose in her face.

  “I thought so,” Fleet said with a grin. �
�I understand Professor Alfred Cox spent a couple of hours with Gooding last evening. And you and Professor Cox just happen to live in the same boarding house.”

  Mr. Fleet suddenly grabbed Emily’s elbow and pulled her toward the alley as a closed carriage drawn by a single horse bore down on them. Emily lost her footing on the icy cobbles and fell against the animal. She caught a quick glimpse of white against chestnut before Mr. Fleet pulled her to safety. Once the carriage was gone and Emily’s breathing returned to normal, they turned to watch the goings on behind the hotel. Two bearers carried a stretcher covered by a dark blanket out of the service entrance of the hotel. The front bearer slipped on the icy step, and the hand of the deceased dangled off the stretcher. A man’s hand, with just the proper bit of white cuff showing below the black sleeve. An ostentatious fraternal ring with a red stone was visible even from the distance.

  * * * *

  Mrs. Stevens and her four boarders were in the parlor sipping sherry from tiny glasses when Emily came downstairs dressed for dinner. The fire in the marble fireplace was warm and cheery, the curtains shut against the angry weather.

  Emily rested her hand lightly on the arm of the portly man who stood by the marble-topped table, doling out drops of sherry to those assembled. “Professor Cox, I need to speak with you privately.”

  Doctor Bryers raised one dark eyebrow and ran his thumb over the watch in his vest pocket, but kept silent. The two students muttered to each other in the corner. Mrs. Stevens lifted a hand to silence them.

  “Did you see Gooding this morning?” Cox asked.

  “No. That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

  Before Emily could tell him what had happened, Mary entered the parlor.

  “A Boston policeman for you, Mrs. Emily,” said Mary, handing her a card. “I put him in the music room.”

  Emily found Captain Bates standing, his right hand resting on the keyboard of the square piano.

  “Do you play, Captain Bates?”

  “One of my daughters is quite good. She’d better be, after the fortune I’ve paid to her teacher.”

  Emily motioned him to one of the upholstered chairs, and took the other herself.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “You were at the Parker House this morning. You went to see Mr. Gooding the novelist?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time did you arrive?”

  “My appointment was for ten. I got to the hotel about quarter ’til. The clerk chased me away, but I met Mr. Fleet from the Tribune in the street and he told me why my appointment had been cancelled. We stood in the snow and watched as Mr. Gooding was removed from the premises.”

  She was not usually so forthcoming with the police, but they knew this already, so there was no harm in answering more than they had asked.

  “What was the appointment about?”

  “I don’t know. He requested the meeting. I assume he was going to tell me why when we met.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No, I’d never met him.”

  “How did he arrange for the appointment?”

  “Through a mutual friend. Everyone in the literary field knows everyone else in the literary field.”

  “Does Professor Alfred Cox live in this house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he here now?”

  “Yes, in the parlor.”

  “Would you be so kind as to fetch him for me, Mrs. Lawrence?”

  Emily called Cox out into the hall. “Mr. Gooding was found dead this morning before I saw him. It may be murder. Captain Bates of the Boston police wants to see you.”

  Cox froze in mid stride and stared at her for several ticks of the hall clock.

  “Gooding murdered? Poor fellow.” He glanced apologetically at Emily. “Do you know what happened?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Am I a suspect?” he asked, his voice soft, as though saying it would make it so. “I spent a couple of hours with him last evening.”

  “Most likely. Did you do it?” Emily asked, a hint of teasing in her voice. “It would be very clever of you to send me on a wild goose chase if you knew he was dead.”

  Emily took Cox by the hand and drew him into the music room. To her surprise, she was not ushered out of the room after she introduced Cox to the policeman.

  “Gooding was a friend of yours?” asked Captain Bates.

  “An acquaintance, really. And a colleague. He teaches… taught literature at Williams. Writes under the name of Zachary Garner,” said Cox.

  “You arranged for Mrs. Lawrence to meet with Gooding this morning?”

  Cox nodded.

  “Why did he want to see her?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Do you know why he was in Boston?”

  “To see his publisher. Cyrus Oliver always puts up his most profitable writers in nice hotels. Makes me wish I didn’t live here. I could use a night in a good hotel. Gooding told me he was working on the galleys for another novel.” Cox sighed. “Zachary Garner was far more prolific than Baxter Hardey.”

  “Baxter Hardey?” Captain Bates frowned.

  Emily laughed. “Not a murder suspect, if that’s what you are wondering. Baxter Hardey is the pen name Professor Cox uses. You mustn’t tell anyone.” Turning to her friend, she warned, “Professor Cox, you must be careful about giving the police more information than they need.”

  Cox shrugged and tugged at his collar.

  “The newspaper man said he was stabbed,” Emily said to Bates.

  Bates shrugged. “You will read about it in the evening papers. But, yes. Stabbed in his room by parties unknown.”

  “Why would anyone kill Gooding?” asked Cox. “He was an inoffensive man who liked expensive whisky and fine food. His books are filled with violence, but I’ve never known him to raise his voice, let alone a hand, to anyone.”

  Bates ignored the question. “Do you know who Andrew Cherwill is?”

  “No idea,” said Cox.

  “Isn’t he that expensive Back Bay lawyer? Where does he come into this?” Emily asked.

  “Professor Cox, you arranged for the appointment with Mrs. Lawrence and you spent a couple of hours with the victim last evening. Do you know why he wanted to see Mrs. Lawrence?”

  “No, I asked him but he wouldn’t say a word.”

  Emily leaned forward. Did Cox really not notice that Bates had already asked why Gooding had called for Emily?

  “You were overheard arguing with him,” said Bates. “What was the argument about?”

  “We didn’t argue about anything.” Cox looked puzzled.

  “Do you own a knife, Professor Cox?”

  “Certainly, three of them. Here’s my penknife.” He drew it out of his pocket and handed it to the policeman. “I have two daggers in my room. I will send Mary for them if you wish. One was the model for the murder weapon in one of my books. The other, quite dull, serves me as a letter opener. It was my mother’s.”

  Mary was dispatched for the knives. Captain Bates looked at them carefully and handed them back.

  “If either of you learn any more about this, please let me know.”

  “Of course,” said Emily, overlapping Cox’s “Certainly.”

  Mary showed Captain Bates out.

  “I am a suspect.” Cox sounded unhappy.

  “Your knives weren’t the murder weapon, not even close, or he would never have given them back. By the way, what did you argue about?”

  “We didn’t argue about anything.” Cox paused for a moment. “We were discussing the cultural relevance of Lady Windermere’s Fan by Oscar Wilde. Our opinions differ radically. I suppose someone who overheard might think that was an argument. You live in a house full of scholars. You know how loud those discussions can get.”

  E
mily nodded. She had been kept awake more than a few times by similar discussions. “You have an alibi?”

  “You saw me at breakfast, then I had a class this morning: the Italian novel, with twelve students in attendance. Last night, on the other hand, is more of a problem.”

  Emily looked at him attentively. The lack of rigor mortis she saw in her glimpse of the body indicated death in the morning, rather than last night.

  Cox stroked his mustache. “Is it possible he took his own life?”

  “Stabbing isn’t a usual means of suicide. Why do you suggest it?”

  “He seemed very subdued when I left. He mentioned his Boston woman—not his wife—and said she was involved with him financially, but he didn’t give any more details. He’s been having difficulty with his publisher, too. Seems Oliver leaked his real name and Williams College took a dim view of his hobby.”

  “That is something that might be helpful to the police.”

  “You told me not to do more than answer questions. That’s what I did. You don’t get to criticize me after the fact.”

  Emily nodded. “One point for the Professor.” Then she asked, “How do you handle it when someone recognizes you as Baxter Hardey?”

  “I told everyone who might be upset that I was writing under a pen name. They know the kind of twaddle I write, but not the name I write under. A little contextual critique would lay the secret bare if anyone cared enough. I use the words ‘flight of fancy’ far too often.”

  Emily laughed. Every Baxter Hardey book used the phrase at least four times.

  “After the scandal at Williams…” Cox began.

  “There was a scandal when they found out he was the author of sensational fiction?”

  “He thought so. Most schools realize they underpay the faculty and are happy to have you make a bit on the side, as long as you don’t drag them through the mud.”

  Cox paused, turning his pen knife over and over on his palm.

  “He was thinking of giving it up.”

  “Teaching or writing?” Emily asked.